[He has never wanted to kiss Astarion more than in this moment.
The urge swells within him, stunning in its sudden ferocity— oh, he wants so badly to do it. Three steps, catching Astarion's face within his hands, tipping his head up, pressing their lips together with searing adoration, pouring everything his heart is suddenly wailing into that motion. You have a place in my heart, you always have, I adore you, you are unlike anyone I have ever met, you bring me comfort and joy and peace such as I have never once known before with anyone— all of it so jumbled together in his mind and heart, communicated in one single fluid motion with no chance of misunderstanding. I love you, and it doesn't matter how you slice it, for it has no qualifiers. It is not inherently romantic, and then again it is not inherently platonic, either. He would love Astarion even if they stayed chaste for years on end; he would love him if they tumbled into bed tonight.
Like sleeping on the floor or the bed. Like going from the flat in Lowtown to the mansion in Hightown. The details are utterly unimportant, and it does not matter where or when or what, so long as Astarion is near. So long as he has him in some kind of way, that's enough.
And perhaps he would have kissed him. He is no coward when it comes to romantic desires, and he is old enough to know what he wants. But . . . I grant comfort, and Fenris wonders how many times Astarion has endured being sought out in such a way. How many people, over the course of two hundred years, have looked at him as an object of desire and little more. Pretty eyes and clever tongue, and oh, how often people mistake intimacy and lust. How easy it is for a heart to yearn for more, only to be left in the morning with cold sheets and an aching loneliness.
No. No, no, he will not hurt Astarion in such a way. He will not mar this bond between them with his own lust, groping and grabbing. Too often had Fenris endured people looking at him as a weapon, savage and unfeeling; a snarling beast and little else. Too often had people seen him as the weapon Danarius had rendered him, and only that.
That's what I was made for, his voice echoing in his mind. I did better on my back than my heels, and how terrible it would be if Fenris reached for him now. How awfully he'd be proving that unspoken assumption right— you want me for lust and little more, no, he will not do that to him. Not him, dearest to his heart, the most important person in his life, no.
So he bites his tongue and curls his fingers, and ignores that desperate urge, for it has no place here. And platonic affection is enough.]
No.
[A lie and yet not, all at once, and he doesn't dare step any closer.]
All I wish is for your happiness, Astarion. And your companionship, if you will have me. I— you are—
[How to say this? How to verbalize everything that Astarion has come to mean to him? There's some measure of desperation in his gaze as he stares at the other elf, willing him to understand.]
I have had friends in the past. Companions who have meant a great deal to me. And when they left, when the Chantry was destroyed and we all went our separate ways, I thought that I was done with others. Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is . . . that is how it always has been.
But you . . .
[Oh, Maker, but he loves him. Fenris realizes that so suddenly and swiftly it's as if he's always known (and perhaps he has). Staring at him framed in the firelight, offering him such raw honesty as he never does . . . oh, how could this anything but love? Astarion is beautiful like this, staring at Fenris so beseechingly, begging him not to hurt him— oh, I know, dearest heart, I know, and he wants to quell that worried stare, kissing the lines out of his furrowed brow.]
I could not have imagined someone like you. I have never felt so at peace as when I am with you, Astarion. I have never known contentment and comfort as when I slip past your doorway, you are— [His hands waving in front of him, cutting through the air, trying to illustrate and tame an intangible, wild feeling.] I have never known anyone to understand all the horrors of my past and my present as you do; I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.
Astarion . . .
A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.
[Amatus, I—]
Your friendship. Your companionship. Your time. Whatever you would offer me, I—
[Oh, it's too much. He's gone too far, he realizes all at once. His ears flush darkly, his eyes darting away as he falters.]
You mean more to me than I can say. These past few months have been . . . better than I could have imagined. [Lamely, gently, apologetically. Trying to quell his own ardor without making it a falsehood.] A room is the least of it.
no subject
The urge swells within him, stunning in its sudden ferocity— oh, he wants so badly to do it. Three steps, catching Astarion's face within his hands, tipping his head up, pressing their lips together with searing adoration, pouring everything his heart is suddenly wailing into that motion. You have a place in my heart, you always have, I adore you, you are unlike anyone I have ever met, you bring me comfort and joy and peace such as I have never once known before with anyone— all of it so jumbled together in his mind and heart, communicated in one single fluid motion with no chance of misunderstanding. I love you, and it doesn't matter how you slice it, for it has no qualifiers. It is not inherently romantic, and then again it is not inherently platonic, either. He would love Astarion even if they stayed chaste for years on end; he would love him if they tumbled into bed tonight.
Like sleeping on the floor or the bed. Like going from the flat in Lowtown to the mansion in Hightown. The details are utterly unimportant, and it does not matter where or when or what, so long as Astarion is near. So long as he has him in some kind of way, that's enough.
And perhaps he would have kissed him. He is no coward when it comes to romantic desires, and he is old enough to know what he wants. But . . . I grant comfort, and Fenris wonders how many times Astarion has endured being sought out in such a way. How many people, over the course of two hundred years, have looked at him as an object of desire and little more. Pretty eyes and clever tongue, and oh, how often people mistake intimacy and lust. How easy it is for a heart to yearn for more, only to be left in the morning with cold sheets and an aching loneliness.
No. No, no, he will not hurt Astarion in such a way. He will not mar this bond between them with his own lust, groping and grabbing. Too often had Fenris endured people looking at him as a weapon, savage and unfeeling; a snarling beast and little else. Too often had people seen him as the weapon Danarius had rendered him, and only that.
That's what I was made for, his voice echoing in his mind. I did better on my back than my heels, and how terrible it would be if Fenris reached for him now. How awfully he'd be proving that unspoken assumption right— you want me for lust and little more, no, he will not do that to him. Not him, dearest to his heart, the most important person in his life, no.
So he bites his tongue and curls his fingers, and ignores that desperate urge, for it has no place here. And platonic affection is enough.]
No.
[A lie and yet not, all at once, and he doesn't dare step any closer.]
All I wish is for your happiness, Astarion. And your companionship, if you will have me. I— you are—
[How to say this? How to verbalize everything that Astarion has come to mean to him? There's some measure of desperation in his gaze as he stares at the other elf, willing him to understand.]
I have had friends in the past. Companions who have meant a great deal to me. And when they left, when the Chantry was destroyed and we all went our separate ways, I thought that I was done with others. Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is . . . that is how it always has been.
But you . . .
[Oh, Maker, but he loves him. Fenris realizes that so suddenly and swiftly it's as if he's always known (and perhaps he has). Staring at him framed in the firelight, offering him such raw honesty as he never does . . . oh, how could this anything but love? Astarion is beautiful like this, staring at Fenris so beseechingly, begging him not to hurt him— oh, I know, dearest heart, I know, and he wants to quell that worried stare, kissing the lines out of his furrowed brow.]
I could not have imagined someone like you. I have never felt so at peace as when I am with you, Astarion. I have never known contentment and comfort as when I slip past your doorway, you are— [His hands waving in front of him, cutting through the air, trying to illustrate and tame an intangible, wild feeling.] I have never known anyone to understand all the horrors of my past and my present as you do; I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.
Astarion . . .
A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.
[Amatus, I—]
Your friendship. Your companionship. Your time. Whatever you would offer me, I—
[Oh, it's too much. He's gone too far, he realizes all at once. His ears flush darkly, his eyes darting away as he falters.]
You mean more to me than I can say. These past few months have been . . . better than I could have imagined. [Lamely, gently, apologetically. Trying to quell his own ardor without making it a falsehood.] A room is the least of it.